Mistaken
by Lydiby
Summary: Did you think that Erik was the most dangerous monster you'd find there? Welcome to The House That Garnier Built. Welcome to a shadowed enlightenment. What do you believe? Contorted Lerouxisms, Literary fiction, experimental format.
1. Reader\'s Manual

READER'S MANUAL

If you skip this, it's gonna be like jumpin' in the pacific widout ch'o floaties on.

You can try, but it's a long way down.

This story is supposed to be "suspense" not "convince everyone I'm sitting here shooting speed." The last thing I want to do is scare (all what? Four?) of my readers away. (Beautiful, kind, fabulous, wonderful, gorgeous readers.) As you can see, ahm. Since I'm not shouting a pairing five times a day like a muezzin in this Mecca for 'shippers,' I'm not expecting a large and loyal crowd. But I would like a small and thoughtful one. And I have the beginnings, if I can earn and hold their interest. The trouble is I get so excited about the story I get carried off in plot and detail and never realize no one else knows what the hell is going on. So here's my revised press junket shindig, your Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook:

This is Leroux based, right? Got it? Now we are going to take a sharp left, with me? I despise the term 'reincarnation' but I think you get the idea better. 'Reincarnation' is something done over and over on this site and the very word makes my teeth grind. I prefer the expression 'history repeating,' and even that's only half the cigar. So I should say right away that Erik is the exception to this 'reincarnation' business. Erik never died in the first place, so that would be a little tricky you see. Christine died still waiting for the day when l'Époque read 'Erik is dead.' (Is that Kay? Oh, I hope that's not Kay. She has been creeping into my story _long_ before I ever got my hands on her book!) So that's not Leroux-like, but it's part of my story. 'The house that Garnier built' is just a play on 'the house that Jack built', which goes along with the idea of things going around and around.

So this seems like a good spot for my anti-disclaimer.

It goes like this: Leroux is deceased and up until his terminal breath maintained that Erik was a living breathing human being who walked our earth and that everything in his book actually happened. (Give or take. Leroux was a yellow journalist, and from annotated editions of his book it is noted that yellow journalists were known for—in days before anything faster than a telegraph—fabricating stories. The specific recount, I believe is something along the lines of: a foreign correspondent journalist slept through his train stop and so made up a story about a fallacious war. The story got to the embassy in the US, so they fire conflicting reports back and forth with the mother country and there's so much upheaval and confusion that a civil war actually erupts. Now there's something to keep you awake at night, ethics kids, ethics.)

So if anyone is going to sue me they had better be ready to sue a decades-dead yellow journalist too. (Since Leroux insisted that Erik existed (rhyming! Happy days are here _again_!), that would feasibly negate any possible ownership of Erik. You can't own a human being. You would have to sue on behalf of Erik, accusing Leroux of slander or something, and good luck convincing anyone that Erik did exist in order to do so. If Leroux didn't manage it, what are your chances?) So that's why I'm not putting a disclaimer up here.

Leroux supposedly got his papers from the Persian, right? And some other stuff from talking to Meg (who married somebody like a Marquis (I don't remember exactly). So these are all second person sources and by the time it gets to us…you get the idea right? Imagine it was real, but Leroux didn't have all the pieces. Leroux connected the dots, but the real sensational gothic horror of the story slipped through his fingers. Leroux got most of it, but on some points he was 'Mistaken.' Get it?

This idea of being mistaken will carry through the whole story.

We know Erik vs. society and we know Erik vs. Raoul, but we don't know Erik vs. supernatural. We couldn't know because even Erik didn't realize what he was going against until the whole thing collapsed!

I'll translate the small amounts of less than obvious French in this story, for the most part if it looks like it could be the same meaning or roots in English, it is.

There are some people that are going to seem familiar but have different names. Don't be too afraid to assume you know who they are. I'm here to keep you guessing, but only to a point.

There are a sparse few original characters so…

Maxwell is my snafu-ed subconscious's literal translation of where in chapter one the trio goes get coffee. I thought, hm, I want another character here, hm, the three of them should go get coffee, hm, the name Maxwell seems to fit. Then thirty minutes later I looked over what I'd written and about died. Max is not from Leroux at all. Maxwell coffee. Not from anywhere but my crazy head.

I've given up and starting calling the nameless guy (who may or may not have been Raoul) 'Ralph.' Gee, who do you think he could be? (That was my witty sarcasm.) I'm editing 'Ralph' into the chapters.

Ralph. Ralph Lauren. God I have issues! Ralph Lauren! How freaking stereotypical of me! This is the coffee thing all over again! Sorry guys, I have a ridiculously literal brain. At times.

Scenes repeat with emphasis on different characters! (I don't use first person, more of a selective omniscient.) They could go:

Scene I

Scene I

Scene II

Scene I …or nearly any other kind of variation. So sometimes they are happening at the same time, sometimes one after the other, and sometimes I throw in a sort of 'flashback.'

Setting is ambiguous present day (just to keep things from getting outdated.)

The catacombs in the old quarries are actually in the 14e arrondissement, l'opéra Garnier is in the 9e. I know this, but you should forget it. Wipe it from your memory. I don't need any one to _tell_ me I'm an américaine stupide who's never been to Paris.

Have I lost anyone?

Oh dear. Everyone. sigh.


	2. Le surnaturel

One last thing! Keep in mind that while history tends to repeat itself, we are sometimes…

Mistaken ©

Did you think that Erik was the most dangerous monster you'd find there? Welcome to The House That Garnier Built.

—

Don't tell me this needs translating:

Le surnaturel

—

Scene I

Focus: le monstre

As the water continually dripped downward, he shivered. He was still weak from the last time, still wounded and weary, exhausted to death.

Shadows were gathering, sending fiery alarms running up and down his nerves. Racing through his body to his brain, if all else was shattered, at least his medulla oblongata was functioning. Although that wasn't strictly true, it was altruism that had brought him through this. Brought him to this. An enduring love, all consuming and deadly, had seen him swept over the edge into a bottomless madness, a bottomless hell. It was an absurdly satirical thought.

He was no knight, his task was never glad; triumph was swiftly cut down to despairing existence alone. The vigil never ended, and there was no certainty that it ever would. He waited for her return. Hoping she would never come as much as he needed her. Split in two, two minds, two souls, two thousand pieces of a shattered heart.

He was her angel.

Down here it wasn't so difficult to believe. Down amongst the darkness, where the shadows gathered. Damned as he was, here he almost had a halo. Doubled beneath the weight, he would wait. Determined to hold the gates shut until the end of time.

The end of time was something he dreamed of before the mindlessness came over him. But now it was just beginning. The fire surged through him again. He had to be on his feet before it began. On his feet.

He was still at the gates. The catacombs gaped behind him. For a moment he turned his back and shuddered violently. His nerves were burning constantly now; he didn't have long. Rubbing his hand over his face, he tried to dredge up some memory, some image of her to carry with him. She was the reason he did not run. She was the reason he was not dead. She was the reason. She.

Her very name was a prayer and he had lost his religion long ago.

In more ways than one.

His focus dropped from its plain and into reality. Reality forced him to drop to his knees from the physical agony of standing. Searching the cavern, the surface of the lake for humans. The water had carried their voices to him; perhaps they were far enough to flee in time. Where? There! a flash of a light beaming across the water. It took a moment—too long—to recall language, words, speech. His voice was once his gift, once his curse, and had been unused for untold years. Except for when the agony ripped his soul out of his mouth.

"Go! Get out of here! Go! NOW! GET OUT OF HERE! GO NOW!" He screamed at them until the crest of the wave broke over him. Then his screams became the other kind.

—

Scene I

Focus: le gardien galant

When Ralph saw her face again in the faint reflected light of day, he knew it was a mistake. He shouldn't have brought her. They shouldn't have come here. Her fingers were pressed tightly over her mouth still, as if to keep in her own screams. Fatigued more than he could ever recall, fatigued too much to even try to comfort her, he turned to Maxwell.

"Let's get some coffee," Ralph said. His voice was gravel; dully, he wondered if he hadn't screamed as well.

Ashen, Maxwell nodded. "None of us are going to get any sleep tonight," he whispered. The trio hobbled several blocks down and over and collapsed shivering into a curved booth. Huddled beneath the table lamp, drawing whatever warmth they could find into themselves. They sat up together in silence until the sun rose. Blinking, dazed in the warm, rosy light.

—

I've held the junket twice.But I still have a complex so I'll leave this up for laughs:

The drama! Oh, the drama!

Confession time: I've got a Prima Donna complex. But unlike lovely Carlotta, who shatters glass for a paying audience, I'm running on benign schizophrenia and kind reviews. So while I _think '_Ima too gouda for alla you,' I wind up sitting at my computer mumbling to myself, "Damnable, will they all walk out? Is it damnable? … (It's publicity and the take is vast! Free publicity!) But I have no cast/readers!"


	3. La belle sadique

Beware

The beautiful sadist

La belle sadique

—

Scene II

Focus: les monstres

Little feet were walking towards him. When he recognized her face, realized who was truly standing over him, he tried to pull back into himself. The slim girl-child bent over him, her clear blue eye dancing as flaxen hair flowed over her shoulders.

"Tut, tut," she said with a gentle smile, tapping him twice onone side of his ruined face. It hurt, but not as badly as it should have; she wanted him to see what she did next.

"Missing this?" she asked sweetly. Her features shifted into those of his beloved. Restraint and composure were luxuries he had been unable to afford in eons. He choked on a dry sob, even knowing the deception. It was something she had shown him many times. A reminder, that she was the superior magician.

"Hm," she sighed, with a slight trouble to her brow, "I see they have been over-zealous to-night."

He shut his eyes as the faux face dissolved and became her _natural_ face.

A face so beautiful that it was hideous to behold. For many years he had thought that he was something terrible to look at, and in that time his behavior grew to match it. But he had found there were worse things.

"Tut, tut, I say," she repeated with a bit more cheer, "Whatever would I do if you were to die?" The slight creature hoisted him up over her shoulders and lifted him. Maneuvering his limp form was not nearly as difficult as it should have been for someone of her petit size. He blacked out while she carried him back to the remains of his house. Awakening briefly as she pored water down his throat from his one remaining intact carafe.

"There now, snug in your coffin. I'll just have a tête-à-tête with a few of my darlings then," she giggled.

What Erik hated most about it was that it truly was a child's laugh. Pure and sparkling, carefree and innocent, all of the things it should not have been. It was one of the few natural things about her, and all the more ironic for that.

"Come now," she wheedled, recognizing the numbed disgust spread across his features, "it won't do you any good to be bitter. After all these years, too." She tossed her pretty dark curls. "Now, have a look at the face that should have been yours, before I go."

Disobeying her was impossible, and this diversion of hers damaged him far more than any of her 'darlings' ever could.

—

Ask and the great swami will explain all. Okay, that was a lie, but ask anyway and I will try. Rhyming is fun, kids! (Tête-à-tête is an expression used in English, but anyway it's literally 'head to head' meaning a private chat. She's being ominous. It's an implied threat to her 'darlings' for butchering him too badly.)


	4. La peur

Everyone's guesses have been on the mark thus far. Much love and gratitude to you for humoring my Prima-Donna-Wannabe-ness! Thanks Solecito, fireflyjunction, and Moonjava, and anyone else just reading! You're too kind! I hope that this story will continue to hold your interest! For the delay (and since this chapter ended abruptly and without consulting me first) you get 2 chapters in 1 day!

A double shot of

Fear

La peur

—

Scene I

Focus: la Suédoise

A sound unlike any other echoed through her mind, and unknowingly she began to weep. Up, up, up, running up the stairs, they fled through the passages, into the gilded corridors, down the grand staircase and burst out upon the steps. Heartbroken, she stared up at the dim quarter moon, blindly following the hand that clutched hers and pulled her down the street.

It was hours later before her mind was capable of structuring a logical thought. All three of them packed together around the table, she pressed between the two men. None of them even noticed their waitress's reaction to their shell-shocked expressions. Eventually, the other two's proximity and warmth restored her.

'Someone died to-night,' Charlotte thought, and tried not to imagine how.

—

By the way, this is your first tie-in to the title. Charlotte thinks someone has died; she is Mistaken. It only sounded that way. For the moment never mind who Charlotte is, go read the next chapter.


	5. Tentant le diable

Think of this as a film you have to watch twice to appreciate and don't give up!

Yes Solecito! 'Most recent feline' does denote a cat, one in a long successive line of cats! The idea came from a conversation with an admired teacher of mine about how he no longer allows himself to become attached to his dogs. The cost of grief when they die has become too high. When the 'darlings' can't get a hold of Erik, they go after his only companions. Without revealing too much, in this chapter la sadique is mocking him for being a living skeleton by suggesting he consume the corpse of his mangled cat. (Sadist, remember? _I _have nothing against cats.) She hears something different in meaning than his decision to stop taking in strays and gets ticked, to put it lightly.

Or maybe the idea was a mangled subconscious whisper that ALW wrote another musical called 'Cats' as all of you know or yet another piece of Kay that snuck in before I'd read her book. This bothers me quite a bit, if you couldn't tell.

Tempting the devil.

Who is…?

Tentant le diable

—

Scene III

Focus: le monstre

Music and memory were his favored morphine. Composing brought him to the brink of euphoria. He'd tasted it once before it was dashed from his lips, but it was enough to have imprinted itself as deeply into his memory the horrors that broke lose afterwards. Melodies chased away misery, yet tonight something hitherto unknown compelled him.

—

Scene III

Focus: le gardien galant et la Suédoise

"Come now, whenever are you going to get an opportunity like this again?"

"This is absurd. Please," Charlotte protested, still—days later—in a wretched state of mind. Max smiled at her wryly and shrugged when she twisted around in their enthusiastic friend's grasp to beseech his aid.

"Just a little song, little Lotte! No one's here but us," he pleaded like the child, that in many ways, he still was.

Rather than reassuring her as it was meant to, it increased Charlotte's agitation. Why did the shadows that filled the empty gallery have to gape so ominously? Imagination or not, she could not relax. Max seemed to realize a measure of how upset she truly was and offered a few lines in charmingly accented English.

"Will you, won't you? Will you, won't you? Won't you-"

"Join the dance?" she replied. A flimsy smile fluttered Max's way as she was tugged to center stage.

"There! Precisely where you belong," Ralph cried, victoriously.

"Oh, hold your tongue!" she cried, flushing terribly. He walked back towards Max, appraising her as if she were a new piece being positioned in the Louvre. She cast about for a moment before settling again where he had left her. Stepping forward, then back, turning right, then left, before shaking her head and standing still.

"Try as you may, you can't deny the lure of the stage." Ralph's tone set her hair on end and a haunted look flew across her features before she could prevent it.

"For heaven's sake, do you want me to sing for you or not?" With a forced composure she snapped back, rebuking him huskily. As the acoustics cast his easy laughter about the theater she calmed.

"Maxwell, what should you like to hear? I'm not going to oblige that crazy fool, not until he learns some manners," Charlotte said deliberately ignoring their somewhat inane, mutual friend.

—

Scene IV

Focus: les monstres

The blood chilling screams of his most recent feline had ceased nearly an hour ago. In an effort to compose his emotions, he did just that. No delaying the inevitable. Soon enough the unwelcome disruption would arrive, and then he wouldn't be able to distract himself.

"I believe this belongs to you."

He stiffened and did not turn around to face her.

"Come now, you must eat."

"Must I?" Erik spat, not bothering to veil his revulsion.

"What does this one matter?" she laughed, "You shall have another."

"There will never be another," he whispered, vehemently. He couldn't stand this any longer. Was it not enough to be driven mad out of isolation alone? What more did she seek to gain from this petty, but all too effective torture? What did he have left to give? Abruptly her tone changed, froze, and became brittle, jagged and just short of lethal.

"There never will be another, will there!" she hissed, murderously, "Rejected. Me." Her furor made her breathe harsh. Her reaction was a convenient answer to his question. He had yet to grovel at her feet, to beg. He had wept countless times, but he would let her kill him before he became her slave. If she could kill him; if anyone could kill him…

"I fail to see why, Madame. You are his equal in every way," he replied. Giving life at last to the venomous words that had been welling up within him for years. She gave a brief cry of astonished rage and crossed the room to strike him across the face, stopping just before him, hand raised. Slowly, her hand fell back to her side. The cruelest of smiles slowly spread across her sublime features.

"That thingis dripping on my carpet. Get it out of here." Anguished and livid, his exquisite voice rose and cracked. Delighted, she laughed loudly; the sound filled the remains of his house, thundering like bell clappers within his head long after she had left. Leaving a train of perfect pain sweeping behind her.

—

I'm sure all of you caught the 'Lotte.' Didja think it was cool? Didja? didja? didja! La Suédoise means the Swede (f.), meaning of course Charlotte. Note the parallel of the laughter; le gardien's soothes, la sadique's burns. Sticky stuff. I found the dialogue electric, but you probably don't understand the subtly of Erik's insult yet. You will. I'll give you a head's up when the moment comes.

Oh please tell me what you think!


	6. Le amoureux des trappe et la peur de l’o

This is my spin on a scene in the book while they are pretending to be engaged , see if you catch it.

The lover of trapdoors and the fear of the dark

Le amoureux des trappe et la peur de l'obscurité

—

Scene IV

Focus: le gardien galant et la Suédoise

Charlotte had felt better since he had bullied her into singing. Ralph was more thoughtful than he immediately appeared. Why should she be so surprised at this sudden lift she felt? Although things went unsaid between them, very little went unnoticed. As they trailed through the edifice she held these thoughts of his kindness to her like talismans against the impending darkness.

Darkness.

"There's an unnatural darkness down there," the wiry, nearly toothless stagehand whispered. As they both stared down into the trapdoor, that sinister gaping black hole, she wanted to move away. Yet, she couldn't, as though something, down in there, was looking back. Holding her captive with its unseen gaze.

"Enough of this nonsense!" Ralph growled at the groundskeeper. Anger flared unexpectedly at the unwholesome man for frightening her. Ralph placed his arm around Charlotte's shoulder to draw her away.

In the moment it took for him to do this, the door was shut.

Wholly spooked now, she gave a wild cry and darted for the stairs. With a shout to recall Max, he followed her, taking the steps two at a time. She had stopped three flights up, confused, breathing harshly, her back against a door, one of many.

"Hey," he called. Winded and panicked, she shook her head.

"We should never have come back here. Never," she gasped.

"We have to, the committee expects—we—they—it's a bunch of crap. There's nothing there! Just a whole shit load of superstition."

She raised her eyebrows at his turn of phrase, as well as at his statement.

"Don't tell me there's nothing there! Don't tell me we didn't hear what we did. We should not be here." At a loss for words for a moment, she simply shook her head.

Her eyes were glazed and stared through everything into the horror of her memory. Pained shock parted her lips slightly.

"Fuck all, I'm going home," Charlotte whispered fiercely.

"Fine," he replied, wrapping her in a hug. She was trembling faintly. He knew she had to be terrified to swear. "Take an extra torch with you then, and the spare blueprints. Will you be alright?"

"Yeah," she said a little too forcefully. Nodding and swallowing, "it's just two flights down to the premier étage and down the grand escalier, right?"

"I'll walk you back down."

She smiled wanly.

—

Scene V

Focus: la Suédoise

Immaterial, she should have been struggling, but that was how she felt. Fighting wasn't worth it. She could have done it. The hands that held hers were trembling. Getting away would have been tantamount to walking away from this unarmed shadow. Yet her fear, and a silent unrecognized guilt, held her passive. In her heart of hearts, she didn't want to be brave; to be forever insisting that there was more going on than the three of them knew. She had a stronger urge to deny it than Ralph had, but between principle and instinct she was bound. Charlotte's own indecision made her more a prisoner of herself than this shade.

Charlotte's heart palpitated loudly and her feet stumbled in the swift wake behind him as he towed her upwards.

Up, up, up so many stairs! Dizzying her as they wound around and around. Despite the grace she observed, she felt, she thought, the figure and the gloved hand were masculine. When had, he, first taken her hand? She had been leaving, leaving Ralph and Max to finish their work. Leaving the opera house for good, and been paralyzed nearly in her terror.

Between the crisp yellow sheets in their flat, she had found no peace. There was no forgetting those screams. What kept her awake, once those tenebrous tendrils had released her from the night of her mind, was that someone had been hurt. Someone had been dying, and they had turned and ran. Like frightened children.

She hated that they had run from someone instead of helping them.

She hated it.

—

What do you think has happened and what do think is going to happen? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!


	7. L’enlèvement

Pardon me, Solecito. Perhaps I am a little agrrrrivated that I have six reviews for as many chapters and at least three of them are yours, dear! Since you really are a dear, I'll try to be productive instead of pouty.

Mama Valerius would be unrecognizable if I gave her a new name and it's worth saying that I always thought she was underestimated.

The abduction

L'enlèvement

—

Scene V

Focus: le monstre

What had he been thinking? Erik remembered all too well. He had been thinking he could win her love; he could protect her. Had he done either? No.

Arrogance, seemed unlikely, considering his circumstances, but he had been very proud and were they not very nearly the same thing? Pride was all he had left, pride and a squandered genius. Somehow it seemed if he could only make her love him it would acquit him of everything else. He still hadn't figured it out.

Which was probably the very madness that had seized him just now.

—

Scene V

Focus: le gardien galant

Ralph frowned as he knocked on her door again. Silence. Tentativeness fled him and he swung the door open. Late afternoon sunshine poured over the crisp looking golden yellow sheets on her bed. A sudden knot in his throat compelled him to swallow.

While he flung himself out of doors to catch a cab, Max kept his head and addressed their landlady.

"Madame Valerius," he said, urgently, leaning over the desk in the lobby, "did Charlotte come in this afternoon?"

"I have not seen Mademoiselle since this morning, when she left with you."

"Thank you," Max shouted over his shoulder. Running to catch up. Ralph wouldn't hold the taxi once he'd gotten one.

Numerous inconveniences had worked Ralph into a panic (directions, bad traffic, finding the correct change). So that when he cried out in horror, again, Max didn't immediately think anything of it. When Max saw, he was shocked, but instantly understood how his friend felt. He was flooded with pity.

Across the floor of the stage level landing of a staircase, lay scattered their spare floor plans and blueprints and an electric torch. It must have switched on when it was dropped, hours ago. The dying beam of light stretched on before them through the darkness.

—

Chills anyone? Should I begin serving complementary hot chocolate, chai, and espresso at the end of each chapter? Oh, j'aime le symbolisme.


	8. Le contrat de la âme

'Poor unhappy Erik' must be plastered over everything here. I know it seems that way, but hey now kids! Easy with the Punjab, Metal & Co. Trust me, he can take a clip and still shoot from the hip, just hang on.

He's not called _the phantom_ for nothing.

This title is especially significant for several characters, I'd say _mostly_ Erik and Ralph. In part it is a reference to the clauses added to the managers' referendum. Another aspect to be considered is the operatic work: Faust, the Faustian pact, etc. Then too, consider, there are things you haven't learned yet, a few letters Leroux didn't know about, that some of you perceptions might be 'mistaken.'

You're probably getting sick of that word.

The contract of the soul

Le contrat de la âme

—

Scene VI

Focus: la Suédoise, la sortie de monstre, et l'entrée de gardien galant

Charlotte shivered, but stood frozen mostly because of the view that swept before her. She'd never seen anything like it, and for a moment she forgot. Who she was with, or perhaps, that she didn't know whom she was with. In a moment of reflective whimsy, she considered; all this fantastic beauty would not be visible without the darkness wrapped around it. After a few moments her dizziness faded and a sound brought her back to the present.

Snapping in a small gust, a billowing black cloak brought her attention back to its owner. Charlotte trembled briefly and drew a deep breath watching the ever-silent shade nervously. Slowly, almost gently, it took a step towards her and she found herself staring into the most fantastic pair of eyes. Golden eyes wrapped in darkness.

Opening her mouth took little effort, however it took several attempts before her voice would service her.

"Who are you?"

The shade said nothing. Charlotte had the fleeting impression that he was trying not to frighten her, although she already was very frightened. After all she was alone, high on a rooftop with a stranger and no one else knew she wasn't at home. They stood motionless for an immeasurable time.

"Please?" she whispered.

A soft sound, a sort of endearment, barely reached her ears. Cautiously, he raised his hand and brushed her cheek so lightly it was nearly imperceptible. Brusquely, he jerked back, turning and evaporating into the night.

"Wait!" Charlotte called without knowing why she should want him to do so. The demand flew from her lips like a startled bird. For a moment the shade paused, turned, and looked back at her. Charlotte wouldn't have known if it weren't for the queer way his surreal eyes had of fairly glowing in the dark.

"You should go. I am the least of the dangers to you here and that is saying a great deal."

As he spoke his eyes glanced down,Charlotte couldn't have known it, but he was looking at his gloved hands and thinking of Persia.

It took her several moments to match the ocher eyes to the unexpected and equally fantastic voice. It took her some more time to recover enough to realize that the shade had fled because he had heard something. Something coming closer, it was getting louder even as she realized these things.

Someone calling.

Calling her name.

"Charlotte!"

Ralph shouted hoarsely, a broken record, obviously panicked, well on his way to hysteria.

Fainter, she heard Maxwell echo.

Charlotte realized she should reply, but hesitated. What a relief it would be to dissolve into shadow, she thought gazing after the vanished shade. The shadows wouldn't question her, wouldn't bowl her over with its emotion, and wouldn't demand to know what had happened. Ralph wouldn't understand; she didn't understand herself. There would be no way to explain it to him, yet he would demand that she tell him. His silhouette appeared and in a moment Max's followed. Reluctantly, she turned to face them.

"Char?" he said more quietly.

"What?" she replied wearily.

"Charlotte! Why didn't you answer us? You must have heard us! Are you all right? Where have you been? What happened?"

"Shut up!" she shouted unexpectedly. Shocked at herself, she covered her mouth with her hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she murmured, stepping out of his grasp. She kept her eyes away from Max as they stung with unshed tears; she knew he'd see through her. They were both angry and worried and Charlotte was too overwhelmed to withstand the emotional onslaught.

"I'm fine," Charlotte said convincingly, "I've been up here, the whole time." She gestured to the skyline and was relieved when they too, fell silent before its majesty.

Unease pressed down on Ralph's shoulders, she had said she was going home. Charlotte had been terrified, only force would have kept her in the building. He glanced at Max but couldn't tell anything from his face in the lighting. The image of that torch beam fading into the darkness wouldn't budge from his mind. She was lying.

"You told me you were going home," he accused, churlishly.

Charlotte drew her shoulders up in defense.

"I was taken by surprise," she whispered, weakly.

"I'll bet," he retorted, sarcastically.

"Stop it, both of you," Max broke in roughly. He was fed up with them. "So long as we're here," Charlotte shivered visibly, and Ralph gave a small crow of triumph, but Maxwell went on, speaking over them, "the only thing we'll accomplish will be to go on biting each other's heads off. Charlotte you can give us your explanation somewhere else."

Feeling desperately alone, Charlotte walked between them until they were out of the opera house. Already, the rift had grown wide.

—

Scene VI

Focus: le monstre

Impassively, Erik watched their exchange from a distance; it was an act of déjà vu, but not the same. Clear amber eyes gazed blindly into the city of light. The pain of reliving the moment was irrelevant to him now. It was easy to see why Christine had thought Raoul would be safe here. He had almost just done the same thing. Almost spoken. Almost confessed. Almost.

Erik knew better, last time he had been the threat in shadows.Wherever they went the threat would remain. Whether he was the threat or someone had usurped him.

Yet so long as the boy was involved he could retreat into his original role. There was a certain amount of security in it. It was a part he knew very well. It put him in control again. Except he knew better than to believe he was in control, this time.

He remembered it all. Every word, gesture, and step down the road to perdition. He had underestimated everything but himself.

This time, he didn't care to hear what they had to say. Instead he sat and thought of the last note he'd ever written. Detailing the management of what he had loved above all else.

—

Contract, contract, notes, notes, notes!

Please leave me a review.


	9. Le deuxième occasion insaisissable

Le deuxième occasion insaisissable

The elusive second chance

—

Scene VIII

Focus: la Suédoise

When she woke up, it had snowed. It was just five o'clock; the others had not stirred from their rooms. She had not given them an explaination. The night before she had immediately fled to the sanctuary of her room. For a moment she paused at the window, hand resting on the curtains. Then she turned and slipped her legs out from between the yellow sheets. Silently, she pulled out a pair of black creased and cuffed trousers and a sweater.

As she wound down the stair to avoid the noise of the antique elevator she put her arms through the sleeves of her black mac, passing her scarf from hand to hand. Pulling it around her, she cast swirling shadows across the walls.

"Is that you Charlotte, cherie?"

Charlotte paused on the last step and drew up her shoulders.

"Yes, Mama Val."

Her white chignon appeared around the mail pigeonholes beyond the lobby desk.

"Going to visit your father, I see. Well I shan't keep you, cherie. I only thought I'd offer you a fresh muffin. Say hello for me."

"Oh merci, Mama Val. It's so kind of you to send flowers the way you do."

"C'est rien ma cherie. It's nothing at all," the dear old woman said as Charlotte kissed her on the cheek. Her vivid childlike cerulean eyes followed Charlotte as she stepped out into a brave new world.

A few blocks over she flowed down the metro steps and got off at the place de l'opéra. She stood there in the blowing snow for an immeasurable time. Thinking thoughts no one else could know. And if, for a moment she did think she saw someone on the roof, it was gone before she had decided on ghost, statue, or maintence man. So she attributed it to the snow and an enthusiastic imagination—fueled on her father's folklore from her childhood. Turning she returned to the metro, this time to take an RER out into the countryside.

—

Scene VIII

Focus: le gardien galant

He had only to look at the coat rack and see what was missing to know where she had gone this time. Which irritated Maxwell all the more.

"If you don't want to go after her, I'll leave on my own."

Maxwell groaned and dragged his fingers through his messy coffee-coloured hair. It wasn't even twelve o'clock yet and already he felt a headache coming on.

"She's already furious with you, do you really think this is going to help?" Max asked sharply.

He ignored the question and kept slamming about the flat getting his things in order.

"You're shaping up to be a real asshole, you know that?" Max shouted, and followed him into their small lounge; "You _know_ she goes to see her father every Saturday. Even if the cosmos fell out of line and that's not where she went, _it's none of our business_. You aren't her husband, and I'm not her nanny. What the hell has gotten into you?"

"I don't know," he groaned. He sank down onto the couch and put his head in his hands.

"I'm coming off as jealous and crazy, but I'm worried about her, Max! She hasn't got anyone else in the world, but Marguerite and us. Maybe I shouldn't, but I _do_ feel responsible for her," he paused. Thinking about what he'd just said. "I'm telling you, she was freaked out yesterday; I just don't feel good about it."

"Maybe you should go then, at least to make up with her."

"Really?"

"Yeah, just don't do anything stupid, kid."

"Shove it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever…kid."

—

Scene VII

Focus: les monstres

"My darlings are getting bored," she drawled. Flipping a manicured hand out to dangle listlessly. He froze where he stood, having not seen her in the room. She lay sprawled across a listing divan wearing a seductive smirk and a white gown that was neither revealing nor modest.

"Get out," he ordered, blankly.

"You've been hiding something from me," she called out in a singsong tone.

A physical wrench of terror tore through the vicinity that the human heart was known to occupy. With a new wave of misery, he understood exactly how his beloved had felt.

"I _would_ tell you _to go to_ _hell_…" he retorted.

Her shapely figure jerked to a stop in the door as she let lose a katabatic scream that came dangerously close to rupturing his eardrums. She flung out her arms and Erik collapsed, clenching his jaw shut in pain. For a long moment she stood over him coldly as he convulsed and stilled alternately. He relaxed as she unclenched her fists. As his vision greyed and darkened mercifully her sotto voice dripped poisonously into his ear.

"Do not toy with me, you of all people should know there are things worse than death. Do I really need to remind you what happened last time?"

To her dismay and confusion he smiled beneath her glare before falling unconscious.

Erik knew what had happened now. Knew what had gone so spectacularly wrong in his plot to win the heart of Ms. Daaé.

She growled, wretchedly and gave his form a kick with a dainty foot. Livid that somehow she had not broken him properly before he passed out, but there was nothing she could do now.

Before she could react he held her by the neck. She gasped and choked, shocked enough that she forgot momentarily she didn't need to breathe. Her feet dangled, and her eyes narrowed as she ceased struggling. She could not speak, but the message was quite clear.

"Milady, did you think it would last forever?" he hissed, pleased to see her eyes widen. A sickly smile contorted his lips as he drove the dagger home. "Did you think that he would welcome you as his queen? _Well perhaps he has changed his mind. It has been quite awhile, you know, plenty of time to think things over again. Shall we see_?"

Her eyes narrowed and she rasped in a demonic strangled voice.

"By heaven, hell, and limbo _you will regret this_, but go on, if you dare, you wretched hideous fool."

"Yes, I dare say one so beautiful as yourself has spent far to much playing with abandoned bones, socializing with living corpses," his voice was scathing, soft and maniacal.

"Do it," she whispered evilly.

Deftly, his thin elegant fingers snapped her neck.

"I'd ask you to send my regards, but…you understand. Bon voyage," he muttered derisively as he tossed her limp cadaver into the underground lake.

—

I hope that appeased you Erik lovers. ;) Sorry I've been gone! I've been pulling my hair out over my writing, but I'm really quite pleased with this. Work and Harry Potter were also cause for delay; I will try and get back to regular updates though. It probably slipped your notice, but Erik's scene happened before the others, just so you know.


	10. Les morts vivant

Quite correct, dears.

I thought I'd made my own mistake with Mama Val after all, but now I see, I've slithered-out so hard I wound up right where I started. Which suits me perfectly in this case! So she remains as named.

Your social commentary

Les morts vivants

The living dead

Scene IX

Focus: la Suédoise

"How is he today?"

"Not so well I'm afraid, he was doing better yesterday though. I'm certain seeing you will do wonders. We've been reading a new book, it's in there still, and the page where we left off is marked if you want to continue."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome dear."

"Good morning father!" Charlotte cried. Trying her best to sound jubilant. As ever, the room smelt of bleach and cleaning agents. Charlotte leaned over and snapped on a reading lamp she had brought to use instead of the fluorescent ceiling lights before kissing him on the cheek. She'd always hated that kind of lighting and it made the blandness of her father's room unbearable.

"I brought you a new picture, father. Would you like to see?"

He could not answer but she could easily imagine what he would say. If he could speak he might say, yes of course my little Lotte, show me what you've made for me.

"I'll hang it up with the gardens Marguerite painted," she said. Quickly, she moved to stand on the brown chair next to the bed, bracing one foot on the bedrail because it had wobbly legs. She taped it on the ceiling among a small collage of other images where he could see them lying on his back. It was the one bright spot of the room, and a veritable riot of colors. The rest was dull and drear. Winter light filtering through the blinds, graying tiles, the tan blanket on his bed, even Mama Val's flowers were wilting at this point in the week.

Anxiously, she watched him for a reaction, a small child waiting hungrily for her father's approval. With an effort, his eyelids trembled several times and his lips moved without making sound.

"I'm glad you like it. It's the grand escalier, the marble is really beautiful," she said while taking his left hand. "I knew you would of course, I'll bring more next week. Have you had lunch yet?" She glanced at the clock on the wall.

"I guess it's good _afternoon_ then! I'm sorry I was late papa. I've been so tired lately! But it's good that I've been busy…"

Here her resolute cheer slipped momentarily. Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed facing her father. She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin in her hand. She wanted to tell him how frightened she was of the strange man in the opera house and how she was fighting with her friends. Fighting over what? If she weren't so scared it would have been laughable. But she didn't tell her father any of these things. She didn't tell him anything that might worry him.

"Oh, things just confuse me, you know? But it doesn't matter. Did I tell you that Mme. Valérius said hello? She's such a sweet lady. Do you remember how at Christmas she used to make us a whole bûche de Noël, just for the two of us? And all the other food too! It was wonderful."

Charlotte thought she felt him just barely move his hand in hers and the idea encouraged her.

She went on to detail how her vocal instruction was coming with an enthusiasm that was less affected and more sincere and then told him a smoothed over version of how she had gotten to sing in the old opera house. When she ran out of new things she could bring herself to tell him, her gaze slipped down to a dusty ancient looking leather boundbook resting inconspicuously on a shelf beneath the night table.

"I guess this is the book Sister Bridget has been reading to you," she said as she pulled it out and examined it. It looked as though it might crumble in her hands as she studied the cover and spine for a title with care. Whatever had once been embossed had faded with time and wear. Cautiously, she cracked it open to the page marker.

"Would you like me to go on reading the book for you?"

She watched him carefully while settling her satchel on the floor. Charlotte couldn't tell if he reacted at all. Her eyes stung fiercely for a moment and she bent her head, fussing with the delicate novel. She smiled forcefully when she looked up again.

"If you're tired you can just fall back to sleep, Papa," she said softly.

—

Scene XI

Focus: la Suédoise

"Ms. Charlotte?"

"What? Oh, Sœur Bridget."

She stared at the older woman as though still bewildered by where she was.

"Are you well child?"

"I—I must have fallen asleep, what a strange dream I had! How late is it?" Charlotte murmured, rubbing her eyes. Without giving it any thought, she set the book aside and stood to stretch.

"Six o'clock, Ms. Charlotte."

"Oh, no, I missed my ride back to the station! I guess I'll have to find a room in town."

"Sœur Geneviéve will have no trouble boarding you for the night, dear. Why don't you go have dinner, I'll get everything fixed up for you."

"Thank you, Sœur. It's so kind of you." Charlotte wrapped the surprised nun in a firm hug and smiled tiredly.

"Pas de tout. Not at all."

Sœur Bridget thoughtfully threaded her rosary through one hand, while watching Charlotte pull on her trench coat and wrap her scarf around her neck. The young woman was here every weekend to visit her incapacitated father. She was among the most devoted of the tiny rest home's visitors. Few would willingly subject themselves to so much ongoing pain. Sister Bridget had few misconceptions about reality and the nature of the world, but she found it difficult to imagine that her poor father was the only one who cared for Charlotte.

—

Scene XI

Focus: le guardien galant

Ralph stomped his boots impatiently, and when he sighed his breath hung around him in a cloud. When he was particularly anxious he often found himself wishing for a cigarette. Lotte had been quite fierce on the subject, in fact rather astonishingly so, and had forced him to give it up almost two years ago.

While he tried to reassure himself that she was fine, a slight trembling of his hands gave him away. He had either missed her completely thanks to that pharmacist's horrible directions or she was spending the night at the rest home. It was something she'd done once or twice before, but she had always called, and tonight she hadn't. He might have understood her still not wishing to speak to him but she might have at least called Max, but Max hadn't called his cell and the phone at home went unanswered.

He had gotten off the afternoon train only to realize that since he had not come with Lotte there would be no ride waiting for him. He'd spent most of the remainder of the afternoon traipsing through snowbound country lanes on a wild goose chase and arrived in time to be stiffly informed that visiting hours were over. Although aggravated more than he had been in ages, Ralph had been apprehensive of nuns from childhood and his long trek through the drifting snow had exhausted him. In the end he had taken the address of a nearby bed and breakfast a little resentfully, but unable to bring himself to try and bully a clerical person. Which he doubted he would have been at all successful at anyway from the iron set of the woman's mouth.

Fortune seemed bound and determined to be set against him, for what should was been a marvelously comfortable bed only set his worries and fears free to prey on his undistracted mind. He should have been unconscious the moment he flopped down on it, still fully dressed, but instead he could not sleep.

Eventually, he had given up on trying. He pulled on his coat and held his boots in one hand while trying to slip down strange stairs silently in the dark. Every creak sounded like a gunshot to him in the silence, but no one stirred and he crept across the kitchen and eased the back door shut behind him.

Standing on the icy back stoop, Ralph could see the parish buildings were just a little to the south of the property boundaries. The church itself hid the former hospital from view.

Two world wars and a hundred years had taken quite a toll on the facility. Ralph had tried to talk Charlotte into moving her father somewhere with more technology and a better staff—somewhere with their own physical therapy wing and a stroke rehabilitation center—but she refused point blank. Since arguing with her over the affairs that dealt with her father's care was a sure way to upset her for days, he'd given up faster than he might have. He still didn't understand it; money could not have been the issue. There were plenty of better equipped and more convenient homes she could afford. Government health care would have handled it, and if not, Ralph would have, gladly. But Charlotte had never explained.

Bouncing on one freezing foot at a time he tugged his boots on and managed to slip and fall off the side of the back stoop.

"Merde!" Ralph shouted as he lost his balance.

Lucky in this at least, he managed to fall into a drift, preventing any real injury. Grumbling to himself darkly he picked himself up and beat the snow off his coat. He glanced up at the windows of the house nervously but they remained dark.

—

Scene XI

Focus: la Suédoise

"Are you still awake, Papa?"

His eyes seemed to be focusing quite clearly on her tonight.

"Me too."

Silently, she stood and pulled the blinds open. The old radiator at her feet creaked comfortingly. It was a gorgeous winter night. Snow draped across the old stone church and glistened in the light of a brilliant full moon.

"It's so beautiful tonight."

She quickly turned his bed and cranked it up so he could see out the window. For a moment she held her breath, searching for something she could say.

She was bursting with what she could not.

"Remember the games we used to play? You used to make me midnight pancakes with chocolate chips when we first moved here and I got homesick," her voice fluttered as she tried to reminisce. "Back in Sweden we'd lay out in the snow and you taught me all the constellations you knew."

Charlotte fell silent in the face of her own childish triviality. Memories were all they had left and it hurt her horribly. She couldn't bear to imagine what it must be like for her father. She had stopped speaking of recovery years ago. While he had made progress, the failures were too cruel to face.

Tonight she thought she might burst with all the secrets and suspicions building within her. Charlotte's head was spinning in thought at the rate of a cyclone, and still she could find no conclusion, no answer, and no peace.

She heard a rasping noise; it was her father.

"What is it? Should I call a nurse?"

Charlotte was at his side instantly; using everything she'd ever learned from the sisters to tell what was wrong. He rasped again, but gentler. His vital signs were fine as far as she could tell. Perhaps his speech therapy was finally making some progress? She looked into his weary blue eyes. His face was slack on one side, the side of him that had been ravaged most by the stroke, but the lines around his steady eye were crinkled. Not as usual, as though he were in pain, but almost mischievously.

He stared intently at her.

"I—oh, what is it?" She asked hopelessly, and could not help but begin to cry. Except that when she looked back at his eyes, his expression made him look almost as if he'd never had the stroke.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, in part because she had no way to know what he wanted and in part because she sometimes got so dragged down that she forgot the _he _was the same. His body was wrecked, and he was unable to express himself or communicate, but he was still the same person.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and wiped her tears away determinedly. When she looked at him again this time she saw a smile. Not a real smile of course, but there was enough of it in his eyes for her to imagine the rest.

"Was it something I was talking about?" she tried. His eyes seemed to slide out of focus, but then he blinked several times and fairly steadily.

"The constellations?" She asked perplexed.

He rasped again. She stared trying desperately to understand what he could mean.

"I—you mean," she faltered, "Oh no…you can't mean…"

He rasped yet again, insistently it seemed to her.

She began to say, 'Oh no, Papa, I can't take you for a walk. Not now, it's nearly midnight and freezing cold! You'll get ill and the sisters would never forgive me. I'd never forgive me! Tomorrow please. I _can't_.'

But the old look was in his eyes and she had missed him so badly, to see a little of that come back…

The words died in her throat. She smiled timidly and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"One last time?"

She recognized his smile easily this time and returned it freely.

There was no way for Charlotte to know just how much more there was for her to learn about living and dying.

—

I'd understand if you despise my dressing of this, but, well, that's how it goes. If so, please be so kind as to say why. Sorry about the lack of 'sweet action.' This fic has gotten far longer than I first intended and the building takes time and thought. Merci beaucoup!


	11. Les révélations

I would bake you guys things out of gratitude if I had any way of getting them to you. Really I would, cakes, cookies, cheesecakes, caramel sutra, and cinnamon buns as big as your head! Even if I haven't quite mastered Sunshine's art (I'm not Martha freaking Stewart), I _do_ make damn good banana and pumpkins bread. So a) imagine you have all these things or b) go get them and spoil yourself while you read. You've earned some good karma for your kindness in reviewing.

If things are starting to make sense, I hope it is because I'm writing this well.

As we resume our story (which is hopefully beginning to gather momentum at last), Charlotte is bringing her father back inside, (I've mentioned this place is a bit shoddy as far as technology goes and Charlotte is really familiar with most everything about it, so that's my practical loophole you see…). I know that _somewhere_ in the last chapter I mentioned her dad had a stroke, er, does it need more explaining than that? (Scratches head sheepishly.) I've been implying things rather then stating them again, so you'll have to forgive me. Twice actually, because while Erik _is_ in this chapter, he's a bit invisible, er, not literally! Just, I mean…oh confound it; time to shut up.

(Self-explanatory)

Revelations

Les révélations

Scene XII

Focus: la Suédoise

Charlotte tugged one glove off her hand and rapidly punched the entry code on the lock pad. It beeped softly and in the stillness she heard the lock click.

Charlotte took care to wipe down any snow left on the wheelchair as soon as she had moved her father indoors. Then she assured herself that her father was comfortable and warm, safe back in his bed, and not in any danger of catching pneumonia, before returning it. Poor Sœur Monique was still snoring away beyond the nurses' station. Charlotte thought to herself that the woman was much too old to be on night duty, but they were understaffed. Taking vows didn't seem to be very appealing anymore.

It wasn't until she returned to the room made up for her that she realized her necklace was no longer around her neck. When she reached down to lift her sweater she felt something fall. When she found it on the floor she saw than it was a little less than half of the gold chain she normally wore.

Feeling sick, she methodically shook out all her clothing, the sheets and crawled across the narrow tile floor of the room. She traced her steps back to her father's room in disbelief. She could remember, when she came back from dinner she'd still had it because the worn crucifix had snagged on her scarf when she went to unwind it.

She muffled a groan as she looked at her sleeping father. How could she have lost it? It was nearly all she had left of her mother, and it was all her mother had left of her mother, who had never know her parents at all. It was her grandmother's only link to the family she'd lost and an incredibly valuable piece of family history. The thought of it somewhere out in all that snow made her nauseous.

Miserably, she stalked back her room for her coat and gloves.

—

Scene XII

Focus: le guardien galant

The snow glittered brilliantly in the moonlight and Ralph felt he had never seen anything more eerie then all those shadows cast by the gravestones and sarcophagi. Everything was so still and silent, it made him feel very small and mortal.

He dug his hands further into his pockets and trudged through the church gates not expecting what he'd see.

He came upon her unexpectedly before an above ground sarcophagus; in the snow there was no apparent difference from one to the next. In the strange lighting he almost mistook her for another shadow.

Charlotte's face displayed so much joy, it must have been painful to contain. Her mac fanned around her, tracing a path on the glittering snow. Buried in the snow her knees must have been freezing, but clearly she did not notice such things. Arms spread wide in ecstasy, her rapturous gaze fixed on an invisible glory.

Ralph paused in his approach and then froze in place. He now heard what Charlotte heard, and understood her behavior all too well.

The two of them held so still that it seemed the world had cease revolving beneath them.

A violinist was playing so enchantingly he might have convinced the dead all around them to rise from their permanent slumber. For a moment Ralph thought he was going mad, seeing Charlotte's Korrigans and all that other nonsense, or even dreaming! The shadows cast by gravestones and moonshine were bedazzling. But Ralph had never known shadows to move they way these were.

The music seemed almost to be its own living entity. Swirling through the silence of the cemetery, like an invisible fog, consuming and engulfing mercilessly.

It wove Ralph into such a trace that he scarcely noticed when the music ceased. Nor much when a seething blackness bubbled up from his feet to devour him.

Charlotte, still blind to the mundane, fell forward in the snow. She rested her forehead on her crossed forearms. Making a curious black shadow that occasionally trembled with weak sobs.

—

_If_ you were paying _fanatical_ attention to the Scene numbering you'd know that the placement of this next scene makes it a flashback. I'm not good enough yet to inspire _fanatical_ attention, so hopefully that will clear things up a bit.

—

Scene X

Focus: la Suédoise

Numbed, Charlotte stared at her mug of tea. At least that is what it looked like to the scant regulars in the village's only diner, but for the most part they ignored her. They were more concerned with weather reports, it was hardly December and they'd already suffered two major storms. It was highly unusual weather and as most of them operated farms it immediately concerned their work and income. Normally, Charlotte would have easily mixed in among them. She wasn't an extremely outgoing girl, but she made an excellent listener and sympathized with anyone who had worries troubling their mind. Before her father's stroke they had led a very simple life and she knew all too well what it was like to struggle with monthly bills.

Charlotte had sat down and ordered, still preoccupied with the hazy overtones of her dream. She remembered her emotions more than what it had actually occurred in the dream.

'When exactly did I fall asleep?' she pondered. She remembered sitting down in the chair and beginning to read lucidly. The opening lines of the chapter, "_The next day he saw her at the opera. She was still wearing the plain gold ring1_," seemed to set multiple tumblers and gears in her memory spinning rapidly to life. Charlotte became quite certain she had fallen asleep rapidly. As her soup grew colder and colder, she found herself wishing more and more emphatically that she had not remembered at all…

_"They played at hearts as other children play at ball; only, as it was really their two hearts that they flung to and fro, they had to be very, very handy to catch them, each time, without hurting them.2"_ Conjured strange visions in her mind's eye. Yet in her dream, she returned to the book as they dissolved.

_"One day, about a week after the game began, Raoul's heart was badly hurt and he stopped playing and uttered these wild words: _

_"I shan't go to the North Pole!3"_

Dizzily, she observed a young man before her with an awful resemblance to Ralph, but she returned to her reading and he faded away without her noticing.

If she hadn't been dreaming before, she must have fallen asleep within the next passage because it included Mama Valérius, by name! And had she not just completed a study of La Juive's libretto last spring? But what of this 'Erik'? It was the first time he'd been mentioned. It meant nothing to her, which was stranger yet, because everything she'd read so far was brimming with foreign emotions. With an inexplicable fear she had looked back at the page.

_"But those two days of absence had broken the charm of their delightful make-believe. They looked at each other, in the dressing-room, with their sad eyes, without exchanging a word. Raoul had to restrain himself from crying out:_

_"I am jealous! I am jealous! I am jealous!"_

_But she heard him all the same. Then she said:_

_"Come for a walk, dear. The air will do you good.4"_

Charlotte's hand had flown to her throat, for as she read it, it seemed that she, and not Christine, had spoken aloud. Yet all she felt was her own ragged breathing. Her frightened fascination dragged her back down into the printed words.

When she remembered how it spoke of Christine and Raoul playing tag and chase among the bridges, pulleys, and ropes above the stage, it was more like watching a student film, where the camera bounced and moved erratically, than reading a book.

Sitting motionless at her table, Charlotte got a terrifying urge to go back to the Garnier and see just how familiar she was with the upper grids of the stage. Shakily, she raised her mug to her mouth without even noticing that her tea was stone cold; the dream had not finished yet. There was more…

She could see the faces of the little ballet brats, knew the names of the craftsmen and old couples, M. Dauphin, le forgeron principal the chief blacksmith, M. Chaumont et ses fils, les charpentiers and his sons, the carpenters, les ingénieurs the engineers, les couturiers the dressmakers, les cordonniers the shoemakers. She knew them all, and had only to look in the opera's renowned library to find the records.

Charlotte laughed at herself nervously.

'A dream! A silly foolish dream! It's just a coincidence; that way the subconscious has of reworking things that really happened. It's meaningless. No one takes dreams seriously…The trap-door, mon Dieu, the trap-door!' she thought wildly.

"_One fact was certain, that Christine, who until then had shown herself the stronger of the two, became suddenly inexpressibly nervous. When on their expeditions, she would start running without reason or else suddenly stop; and her hand, turning ice-cold in a moment, would hold the young man back. Sometimes her eyes seemed to pursue imaginary shadows. She cried, "This way," and "This way," and "This way," laughing a breathless laugh that often ended in tears. Then Raoul tried to speak, to question her, in spite of his promises. But, even before he had worded his question, she answered feverishly:_

_"Nothing…I swear it is nothing."_

_Once, when they were passing before an open trap-door on the stage, Raoul stopped over the dark cavity._

_"You have shown me the upper part of your empire, Christine, but there are strange stories told of the lower part. Shall we go down?"_

_She caught him in her arms, as though she feared to see him disappear down the black hole, and, in a trembling voice whispered:_

_"Never!…I will not have you go there!…Besides, it's not mine…_everything that is underground belongs to him!_"_

_Raoul looked her in the eyes and said roughly:_

_"So he lives down there does he?"_

_"I never said so…Who told you such a thing like that? Come away! I sometimes wonder if you are quite sane, Raoul…You always take things in such an impossible way…Come along! Come!"_

_And she literally dragged him away, for he was obstinate and wanted to remain by the trap-door; that hole attracted him._

_Suddenly, the trap-door was closed and so quickly that they did not even see the hand that worked it (…)5"_

The parallel was so undeniably clear that she dropped the mug heedlessly on the table with a clatter (where fortunately it only slopped over the sides a bit) and took her head in her hands. What terrible tricks her subconscious was playing on her, Charlotte thought, weaving her experiences into her dreams. It was stress, or perhaps sheer madness! Nevertheless, for all she sought to convince herself, she was no less distressed.

Although she could not remember reading anything else, asleep or awake, an orphan passage echoed through her thoughts persistently.

"_No, of course not…Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves (…)6_"

'Him'? Who was 'him'?

She knew there was one clear way for her to resolve her fears.

Why did she feel as though she already knew all the answers?

—

Boom baby! I think I'm back.

* * *

All quotes respectfully taken from: 

Leroux, Gaston. Phantom of the Opera, The.

Warner Books, NY, NY. 1986.

1 Pg. 103

2 Pg. 104

3 Pg. 104-5

4 Pg. 106

5 Pg. 108

6 Pg. 121


	12. Les actions mystérieuse

This chapter does Not go in order, At All! Heads up!

Unexplained actions

Les actions mystérieuse

Scene XV

Focus: la Suédoise et le guardien galant

"Char…Charlotte…"

"It's alright Ralph."

"I'm so cold, Charlotte."

"I know dear."

He felt her hand caress his face and his heart rate jumped unexpectedly.

"Forgive me?"

"Forgive you? Oh! I'd completely forgotten Ralph. Of course I forgive you. I wouldn't leave you like this, but the sisters say you'll recover soon. Some business I have to take care of has turned up unexpectedly. I—it can't wait either, very important…"

"Recover? Charlotte…what happened? I saw you, out in the graveyard, in the middle of the night—"

"I'm really sorry Ralph. I can't—Pére Jacarde will explain to you. I'm sorry. I really have to go."

"Charlotte? Why are you crying?"

"I have to go."

"Charlotte!"

She shut the door gently. He tried to get up to follow but his limbs were working about thirty seconds slower than he might have liked, which meant he ended up sprawled across the floor. A nun soon rushed in to help, murmuring, "poor boy," quietly to herself. Ralph held his eyes shut and tried not to weep.

—

Scene XIII

Focus: la Suédoise

Charlotte rolled over on her cot and listened. Something had woken her out of her dead sleep. It seemed only minutes ago she had stumbled back indoors and collapsed into bed.

At first she only heard her own steady heartbeat, but a moment later voices came from down the hall. They sounded urgent. Quickly rising, Charlotte pulled a blanket around her shoulders and stuck her head out into the hall. She squinted in the light and held onto the doorframe for balance, slightly unsure of what she was seeing.

Several of the sisters were bringing in someone on a gurney. They hurried into a vacant room and Charlotte noticed Pére Jacarde trail in much more slowly. He went and sat, as if in a daze, in a chair across from the nurses' station.

Concerned by the shock evident on the frail priest's features, Charlotte padded down the hall to speak to him.

"Pére Jacarde, are you well? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Unexpectedly, she bit her tongue, but the father did not notice.

"Yes," he answered, even while his breath wheezed.

Charlotte shivered slightly; surely he didn't mean he'd seen a ghost. Surely.

"Perhaps you should put you feet up," Charlotte suggested. She pulled one of the chairs around and tucked her blanket around him.

"I'll make some tea real quick, ok?"

She had whipped around into the little kitchenette behind the station before he could respond to boil water in the microwave. She added milk and honey to the drink like her father had when she was small and ill.

"Here you go."

She made sure his hands were steady before letting go.

"Thank you very much my child. I will be fine."

He sounded stronger; Charlotte was relieved. Yet she couldn't help asking, "Father, what happened?"

He folded his thin liver-spotted hands around the tea mug, and a frown tugged on his narrow lips.

"When I entered the sanctuary this for early morning devotions and to prepare for services, I discovered a boy, unconscious, half-frozen to death and stretched full length across the alter."

Charlotte's jaw dropped, and the priest had returned to himself enough to chuckle weakly.

"I am glad to see that it is not just me," he murmured.

"Wait, he was frozen?"

At this moment Sister Bridget emerged from the room.

"Sister Bridget—"

"Not now dear."

Charlotte shook her head and turned back to the priest.

"The sanctuary is a very expensive chamber to heat, during the week we often shut it off. There are too many more important things. It is a waste.

"I don't _think _that the boy did any of it himself. How could he? There was a sizable lump on his head that even I could see. And the holy water…"

He shook his head woefully.

"How anyone got in there I'll never know, I unlocked the door myself this morning!"

"Wait, what about the holy water?" Charlotte was terribly confused.

"Just this last week the Vatican made us a special gift of several gallons of holy water blessed by His Holiness himself. It appears that someone drenched the boy with it and then shattered the containers across the floor. It's a terrible waste, a terrible sacrilege. Terrible…"

Charlotte sat and thought for several minutes. This seemed strangely familiar, and that feeling made her angry. It shouldn't feel familiar. The book shouldn't have been familiar. None of it should have been, and she was scared and angry.

The next time a sister emerged from the room, she asked to see the boy.

It was Ralph.

—

Scene XIV

Focus: la Suédoise

"Sœur Bridget, where did you get this book?"

"Ah, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. Did you like it?"

Charlotte sat down with a whoosh.

"_Le Fantôme de l'Opéra!_ That's what it's called?I think I'm going to faint," she muttered.

"Is something the matter?"

Charlotte stumbled over her words for a moment and then hastily decided on a slight bluff.

"There was an awful lot of detail about le Palais Garnier in it. It could provide some really useful information for us.

"I'm on an internship at le Conservatoire National where I'm collaborating with several colleagues researching at the old opera house," which was quite true, "Ralph is an architecture major and Maxwell is going into historical preservation."

"Then you are in luck!" Sœur Bridget exclaimed excitedly.

"What do you mean?" Charlotte stuttered.

"About a month ago an old widow in our congregation passed away. She was always very kind and generous, but quite mysterious. We were very surprised to find that she had willed her entire estate to the church. Well, you know my background well enough not to be surprised that I was put in charge of appraisals. My brother has been coming down once a week with a few members of his staff from the different departments at the auction house to assist me. We have been finding the most amazing things.

"It's such a shame that no one ever took the time to get to know the woman and it's far too late now. The stories she must have known! Really an awful shame...but you were asking about the book. Well, to all appearances," the youthful nun began to virtually glow as she spoke, "we have not only a first edition signed by the author, but his original manuscripts, notes, letters, and documentation, everything he used to write the book!"

Charlotte put her head between her knees feeling decidedly woozy.

"I know! Isn't it wonderful!"

The misguided sister patted her gently on the back.

"Right after mass I'll speak to Père Moneau about loaning you everything and we'll go pick up the papers from the house and I can take you straight to the station."

Charlotte hadn't heard a word of this.

"Charlotte? Charlotte! Oh dear…"

—

I was, in fact, going for a little humour right there, but I know it isn't exactly my forte. In review, Charlotte is now returning to Paris with lots of extremely valuable documents and a major headache, half convinced that she's just plain lost it, so…review!


	13. Les nuits dans l'armure légère

I seriously don't have time for this anymore, I'm a senior, with a job, taking a college class and the SATs, and running XC. I will finish this, but chapters are probably going to start taking months.

Les nuits dans l'armure légère

Nights in Flimsy Armour

—

Scene XVII

Focus: le monstre

The gentle kiss of lightning slowly spiraled up his spine, the silent presence of divinity. The softest of sighs escaped his lips as his gloved fingertips brushed the strings of rosaries hanging on their rack.

Even this place had changed.

Irregular in shape and size, the chapel seemed more of an afterthought. The wood floor was intact, but little else in the awkward room was the same. Lady Madonna now smiled benevolently over niches that had found room for a menorah and small set of scrolls and another with a table draped in orange with incense set before small statues of Lord Krishna, Shiva, and Ganesha.

It was just as well.

Noiselessly, he turned to check the breach in the fifth cellar.

—

Scene XVIII

Focus: la Suédoise

Charlotte felt sick as she counted her steps. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, jump! For the distorted breath of time she sailed high above the stage, she felt someone had been watching her, now such a constant paranoia that she gave it little consideration. Then she landed with a thump that sent the bridge swinging on its cables. She should have fallen short, she knew, she should have plunged to her death. Gracelessly, she flopped down to sit and recover her nerves.

'What was she to do?' was a question Char had asked herself over and over again. Coming here was always a mistake, wasn't it? She snarled up her hair by running her fingers through it.

As if in answer, from down below, someone called, "Hello! Who's there?"

She froze in place, although the plank still swayed; it was Max. She'd thought enough to leave him a message, mostly about Ralph, but she hadn't said too much about that either. Ralph had certainly filled him in on the details, exhaustingly. As she crouched to flee, she wondered how long Marguerite would hold her silence.

How easily she escaped and hid from Max, who was better acquainted with the floor plans of the opera house than she, was another drop in the bucket of her welling suspicions.

—

Scene XVIII

Focus: le guardien galant

"Ralph! Come in! How are you?"

"Not so good, have you seen Char lately?"

The lovely young ballet instructor's brown eyes lit up.

"Why yes, she left just this morning, dropped in yesterday. Seemed to have found something really important to your presentations. Won't you come into the kitchen and have some tea? You look as though you're coming down with something horrible."

On cue, Ralph sneezed, pulling out a tissue just in time.

"That would be great, Margo," he seemed to be folding into himself with tiredness as he spoke, "did she say anything else?"

"Hold your horses, boy, you can barely stand upright on your own."

She took his arm and guided him to a white wooden chair, at the blue tiled table. The kitchen seemed to glow in the comforting way that some do and Ralph began to feel extremely drowsy as he watched Marguerite put a steel kettle on the stove.

"She asked me to help her go through some new material with her," she said as his vision began to falter.

Marguerite stepped into the other room for a second and returned with a folded piece of paper. Several folded pieces of paper actually, yellowed and aged.

"There's much more, but somehow I think this may be of interest to you."

As he leaned over them he saw the ink had faded to an unpleasant shade of red and the script was exceptionally messy, but at some length of squinting, wavering, and rubbing his eyes he managed to decipher: Monsieur le Vicomte.

—

your encouragement and feedback means so much to me i just want to thank you for putting up with me.


	14. Les coupes transversales

First scene is quizzical flashback to the return trip to Paris.

Les coupes transversales

Cross-sections

Scene XVII

Focus: la Suédoise

With trembling hands, Charlotte set down _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. _She wasn't one to get motion sick, but she stumbled down the narrow hall to the wash rooms. Halfway through the door, the train swayed as a bullet train passed them and she was thrown roughly enough to bruise her hip against the doorjamb. A low groan parted her lips and the meager contents of her stomach soon followed.

It all seemed so wrong. The grasshopper or the scorpion? Yet how was she to deny what she knew?

Little Lotte and her Angel of Music.

Charlotte and Christine.

He was still there, somehow, after so many years. Long after any mortal should have been dust and ashes. Which lead her to believe that she--yes _she_!--had been wrong in believing he was just a man. She gripped the edge of the sink tightly with one hand and scooped water into her mouth with the other. Shuddering, she pushed her blonde hair back from her face and grimaced at her reflection.

She wondered what was happening to her. Was she turning into Christine? She couldn't imagine being anyone but herself. She didn't want to be anyone but herself. She wasn't some puppet or one of Pavlov's dogs who could be programmed until she just voluntarily sacrificed the sum of her individual existence. Identity was the most personal thing anyone had, and if you were unwilling to change, you were immutable. If she wasn't the girl she believed she was, how could she do anything? Without knowing herself, how could she know anything? Without context the pieces meant nothing.

Her fear of this abrupt transformation chased her headlong into the idea that Christine had been a part of her all along. A sleeping memory was something Charlotte could swallow. That she could be Christine _and_ the same person she'd always been was a comfort she clung to.

How was the Phantom still alive? Was he really a ghost? He'd seemed solid enough, but she'd never met a ghost before. _How was she to know_? How far did this unreality go? Had he _made a pact with something? _Was he a _something himself? _

The screams freed themselves from the cellars in her mind, and she slipped down until her knees were pressed against her chest by the narrowness of the cabin. She drew deep shaking breaths, wondering if the Phantom were responsible for those screams. What new victims? What fresh horrors would await her at the bottom of the lake?

Charlotte could remember the whole ordeal with strangely punctuated accuracy, but it left a bad taste in her mouth. While the conclusion was vivid enough, something about it made her hurt harder than it should, left her bewildered and shocked.

Charlotte realized she wouldn't be able to lock Ralph out any longer. Who knew what danger ignorance would lead him into? How comforting it would be to turn to him and find real understanding. Marguerite would stitch her together again for the time being.

Scene XVII

Focus: le monstre

Silently, he surveyed the arching hole that led to the world beyond his. Dull reddish light filtered through it. It taunted the eyes, doubling vision, giving two outlines to everything, one red, and the other dim green. Even to his sharp night adapted vision, the stones of the wall shifted and slithered like the skin of some monstrous snake.

Although that was not nearly as terrible as the effect upon the thousands of death's heads heaped outside the opera house's outer wall. Tidy stacks of human bones, meters high, even the dead had not remained unshaken by the Revolution. The bones had been collected from overflowing churchyards and the priests had taken their complaints up with Madame la Guillotine.

At first it had made Erik weak and ill to come so near to the spot, but in time he'd become immune to it. Now, while its mistress was on extended vacation, it bothered him not at all. Her so-called darlings, he assumed, were hiding. When she returned they'd take the first wave of rage, but the first would be nothing to the last. She'd save the grand finale for him alone.

So he came to guess at the hour of his death, to question mortality.

Scene XVIII

Focus: le guardien galant

Monsieur le Vicomte,

Being in neither sound body nor mind, I am making a number of arrangements in preparation for what is imminent. It is understood that you will now be Ms. Daaé's caretaker and as such will be pressed to meet high expectations and rigorous standards. Her affection is not to be taken lightly, nor her safety and happiness.

I have opened a trust for Ms. Daaé chez banque de Lazard Freres. She will never want, should your family prove disagreeable, and you will find that my bankers are loyal solely to her. Allow me to take this opportunity to remind you that death has never prevented me from killing before, nor shall it if any mistreatment befalls Ms. Daaé. I trust she will be quite content in her new home.

I had purchased a pleasant home near Upsala for my own wife as a wedding gift; however I should now be pleased to present the property deed to the new Vicomtess. You may tell her what you wish of its origins.

Best Regards,

O.G.

Ralph sat for a moment with his eyes closed, looking somewhat pained. The he sighed and relaxed slightly.

"This isn't very far from the station really. Your flat's still in the 10éme, right?"

"Yes."

"Has she, Charlotte I mean, seen this?"

"No, I don't think so, Ralph. We went through a lot of documents very quickly; this fell out of something after she'd left...what does it mean?"

"It means we've got to talk," he muttered and dragged his hand through his hair in a tired fashion.

Ralph fumbled in his pockets pulling out his mobile. Marguerite felt sorry for him.

The phone immediately went to Charlotte's voicemail, which meant that she'd turned it off.

"Charlotte? It's me, meet me au Café de la Paix as soon as you can get there, please. We need to talk and sort things out. Okay? I'll see you then…bye."

"She said she was going for a walk," Marguerite said guiltily, "I guess I should have gone with her or something, but I felt like she needed some time to sort herself out."

"It's alright. I rather think she's going to show up. I'm going to take this, though." His fingers drifted over the ancient paper, hesitantly.

"After all, it belongs to me."

--

Brief, but hopefully informative. My computer is dead, so this has been a real nightmare. More interestingness in the next chap., whenever that is. I'm such a procrastinator; I mean really, college applications are just a bit more important than this. But I can't help it! My life is so unutterably dull when I don't have time to make up far flung and fetched stories. Enough whining. Anyway thanks and I do hope you'll review me.


	15. Chevauchement

Sequence: conversation between Charlotte and Ralph occurs _after _the two scene that interrupt it. If you're really into paradoxes: the end of the chapter is the beginning of the chapter.

"After all, it belongs to me."

Chevauchement

Overlap

--

Scene XX

Focus: la Suédoise et le guardien galant, Café de la Paix

Ralph had been surprised to find Charlotte waiting for him. As he approached the table she spotted him and he was unhappy to find her features to be entirely inscrutable.

As he took his seat her promptness reveled itself through logic and he fought to conceal his own emotions.

This was rendered largely useless when she greeted him with a strange blend of bluntness and gentleness, "Did you remember who the architect was when you chose la Paix?"

Ralph blanched momentarily and shook his head slowly. Then he murmured, "I didn't mean to bait you by it, you see, it is just, the inexplicable…does not bear easy on the mind."

With a pang of guilt he thought of the letter in his jacket pocket. Charlotte focused on steadying her breathing. Surrounded by red and gold finery, they were the portrait of a fresh, but muted breakup, neither able to meet the other's eyes. Silence reigned for several minutes.

"We—we were happy together, weren't we?" She faltered.

There was another pause where a strand of a waltz from a bygone era sent each of them spiraling into memories. Ralph cleared his throat and set his tea cup down with a slight rattle before he found himself pinned in place by her anxious look.

"Mon Dieu, Lotte, of course we were!" He said quickly, trying to placate the hurt apparent in her, "If anyone was unhappy it wasn't me, Lotte. Don't look at me so, doubt is not becoming of a lady."

"No, of course not…" Charlotte answered in a sad voice, "it is unbecoming of a woman to throw herself at a man, she is loose and unattractive; yet, a man in unrequited love is gallant and heartbreaking."

"Charlotte! I didn't mean _that_—"

"I know what you meant, Ralph." She shook her head ruefully. "You needn't explain. It is just that I cannot help feeling guilty."

"Whatever for? I hope I didn't overlook—"

"No, Raoul—Ralph! Ralph, you never overlooked anything. I sometimes wished you didn't see so much so clearly. I hope I never caused you any pain."

"Don't worry about it, Charlotte," he told her. Gently, he traced along the outline of her face, making her shiver and reluctantly withdraw from his touch.

"Don't worry about it," he repeated and smiled at her. He was handsome and his smile was full love. She smiled back immediately, although she suddenly felt like crying.

"I love you, Ralph."

Scene X IX

Focus: la Suédoise

If she remembered right, she thought a little hopelessly, there should be an old passage a few steps to her right. She could hear Max thundering up the ladder to reach the grid and quickly fumbled for the door knob and squeezed through the narrow entrance in the dark. The clanking of his footsteps on the metal rungs followed her. She unconsciously gritted her teeth as the small door screeched shut, its ancient hinges loudly betraying her position. Wasting no time, she turned and sped further into the darkness. It was narrow and musty and although she tried to tread lightly, she felt as graceful as a herd of panicking bison in the absolute silence. The passage turned several times ruining her sense of direction completely and causing her to stumble and fall against the walls.

Cobwebs smeared across her face as quickly as she brushed them away. Her skin was crawling with half imagined sensations in the darkness, and she was just beginning to think the better idea would be to run back _towards _Max, when something grabbed her.

She tried to scream, but her heart was pounding so badly that all she managed was a sort of breathless wheeze.

"Ma bien-amiée, I was quite serious when I told you not to return."

"Indeed," she whispered faintly.

He sighed and loosened his fierce embrace.

Scene XX

Focus: la Suédoise et le guardien galant

"I love you too, Charlotte. I love you too."

Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek until the bitter taste of warm copper spread across her tongue. She knew it was true, but she hadn't meant to say it. At least he hadn't been in earnest when he'd said it back. There was something completely sober in his intimate brown eyes that had saved her from bursting into tears. She feel so deceitful.

"How much do you..."

"Remember?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"Well," Ralph drew the word out and frowned in thought, "I suppose, I suppose I remember everything, it's rather hard to tell, isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed in a strangled voice.

"Mon Dieu, is it bad for you?" Ralph grimaced.

"I'm okay." She gave a little laugh. "It was, a _long _time ago."

"I keep wondering if we haven't gone completely mad," he drawled, and his mouth curled into an attitude of disgust at the thought.

"I keep wondering if I haven't been mad all along," she returned, with wry weariness.

"Can you tell me what is going on?"

She sucked in a death breath and thought about how to answer.

"Hardly. But you–you must have realized...he's still there."

"_What?"_

"He's still there, and I don't know what that means. But it isn't like, oh I don't know what it's like! He's been warning me away, as if he's protecting me from something else...something else. I don't know, his stature is as terrifying as ever, his voice richer than I recalled, and I cannot wrap my mind around his existence. It's impossible, how can I remember something from before I was alive? What if I've just been brainwashed by a madman? Stranger things have happened, this whole conversation could be a fabrication of my imagination. My reality is dissolving and unless I assume things are what they seem, I'm frozen." She glanced at her distorted reflection in her tea cup.

"Could we order something stronger?" She suggested.

"If you'd like," he said, reluctantly. "Charlotte, I don't want you going back there."

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped.

Ralph pulled back. "Why would you want to go back?" he asked, astonished.

"Because–because I don't believe it–"

"Don't believe _what_?"

"Don't interrupt me. Nothing has seemed right from the beginning."

"Which beginning?"

"Both! You only knew of him when he was barking! Of course, he _is _mad! But he was almost–almost a gentleman, before, well..."

"And now?" Ralph was alarmed and it showed.

"Now he seems frightened. He doesn't want me at the opera house any more than you! It is difficult to think of him as frightened, he's never frightened. It makes me wonder." She shivered.

"I should lock you in your room," Ralph muttered darkly.

"Hmpf."

"You _are _crazy if you think you owe him anything."

"What am I to do? Run away?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Charlotte."

"Raoul."

She slapped her hand over her mouth and they stared at each other. Finally she looked away, feeling shaky.

"You almost were killed on my behalf once. I'll kill you myself if you try any more heroic stunts like that again."

"Charlotte–" he protested.

"Can't you see I'm not worth it! I'm just one stupid girl. I don't know what I'm doing or what I'm not doing, but I never loved you as well as you deserved, which is bad enough, but, I couldn't stand knowing you'd sacrificed your own well-being. Couldn't live with it. Please, Ralph, I don't want to, but if I have to I'll cut you off. Promise you won't take any bullets for me."

Ralph looked at her for a long time, then opened his mouth, and lied.

"Fine, I promise."

Scene XIX

Focus: la Suédoise et le monstre

The luxury of his voice swept away her fears and replaced them with new ones. She couldn't stop herself from trembling completely, but for all that she knew she couldn't believe that he would hurt her. Unwillingly, her face flushed as she became aware of the extent of physical contact between them and she remembered his eerie night vision and tried to hide it. Timidly, she brought a hand up to press him further back, and then stopped.

"You-you have a heartbeat." she whispered wonderingly. Indeed, he had, pumping away rapidly beneath her palm. For a moment he did not look at her, and then said, "Yes, unfortunately...although I'd like to have said it were for my love for you. The truth is none so pretty." Extraordinary devotion was lit in those golden eyes, they made an unconscious testimony to an unending pain. She blushed again, this time feeling equally ashamed and flattered.

She had thought him cold and expected him to carry a pungent odor of decay. The numerous instances where they made contact told her that excluding his hands, he was quite warm. He did not smell vile, or even musty, but, upon a stretch of thought, she decided, like a morning after a hard frost. When the air was unforgiving of your lungs and frozen water made everything a shallow grave on a bitter winter night.

In his absence his human qualities faded and all that was unreal became exaggerated. This man, if you could call him that, had murdered, countless times. He was depraved and deranged and should have been a century dead. Yet one word from that invisible mouth could make her forget all these things. A phantom by every extension of the definition, but his proximity made her conscious of both herself and how unexpectedly and very real he was. There was a rough edge to the audible velvet that was his voice.

Pity, love, hate, and lust all seemed to run together. A silent sigh softly fanned over her ear, and nothing could ease her discomfort when those unearthly eyes were fixed so intently upon her.

"Our time has passed, ma bien-aimée. I will not play Hades, this was settle long ago, return your Adonis, Christine."

"I am not Christine. How–explain this to me!"

"You are and you are not. More than music sleeps within these walls, when she returns I will not be able to protect you. And I do not make mistakes twice. You will go and you will not come back, do you understand me, Christine?"

"Yes," her mind was hazy, "I understand you Erik."

Then her mobile rang and as if she were in a television and someone had changed the channel, she was standing on the steps of the Garnier. With no memory of how she had gotten there. The shrill tone hacked through the foggy melee of her thoughts. '_His voice.' _She wavered and stumbled down a few steps feeling drunk. '_He manipulated me as easily as flipping a switch. I didn't even know.' _She looked up at the brilliantly lit facade and felt small.

---

Wow. That was a longer hiatus than I'd meant. And I've got the feeling I simply keep making _more _questions, rather than answering them and I don't want to alienate you readers, but that's probably exactly what I'm doing. Oh, work, how I despise thee...bye!


	16. A sauvé de la mer

Hello? Anyone out there?

Rescued from the sea

A sauvé de la mer

––

Scene XXI

Focus: la Suédoise

Charlotte had become nosey since their conversation. Sometimes she caught Ralph looking funny at her. She would be making an omelette or crepes in the morning and chatting meaninglessly, and glance over to see him watching her with a distant look. He seemed bemused and distractedly worried, where in contrast, her classes were going wonderfully and she felt better than she had in weeks. Except when she noticed him staring at her as if she were a window to look out of. At first she assumed it was just a matter of sorting and dealing with his memories, but soon she began to wonder if there wasn't something else.

She casually searched through Ralph's bureau glancing at letters and photos. A page of handwritten notes caught her attention. She bent over them, with one hand she scooped back a cascade of blonde hair and the other mechanically flicked through the pages. In a moment she had determined that they were so vague, she'd find no insight whatsoever. Charlotte pulled out each drawer and nudged the mundane objects lightly. Her fingers trailed over a set of antique drafting tools for moment as she paused to admire them.

In the bottom lefthand drawer, she was surprised to find the red Hérmes's scarf her father had given her for her tenth birthday. Charlotte wondered why and when he had taken it from her room, and reached down to lift it out of the drawer. Immediately, she realized that he had wrapped it around something heavy, and when the silk shifted and cold metal pressed against her fingers she dropped it as though it were a snake. Her heart stopped in fear that the pistol would fire as it clatter to the floor. Her heart sat heavily on her tongue as she leaned forward to examine the cold blue steel of a colt .45 protruding from the delicate scarlet folds of silk. It looked disturbingly like a pool of blood

Where, _how, why _had Ralph gotten a gun? It looked old, but Charlotte was no judge, she'd never seen a gun in her life.He'd be thrown in jail if anyone knew he had it. She couldn't imagine where he had gotten it. Not even the police carried guns! She swallowed uneasily, thinking of Ralph making deals in backrooms. It seemed unlikely, perhaps it was a relic from the second world war? She knew Ralph's grandfather had worked for the resistance.

Hesitantly, Charlotte tugged the scarf back and was relieve that the flint wasn't cocked. Even more cautiously, she picked it up, with the scarf covering her hands, and pushed the bullet chamber out to see if it was filled. Six combs filled with honey golden rounds lay cupped between her unsteady hands. She snapped it shut, re-wrapped it and gently tucked it back in the drawer.

The fact that it was fully loaded was telltale.

––

Scene XXII

Focus: le gardien galant et la Suédoise

_Badum, badum, badum..._Charlotte lay next to her father, listening to his heartbeat for half the day. Not saying a word, just listening, and holding his hand. The sound was steady, and it let her recenter herself.

That was how she spent her birthday. By her father's side, to Ralph's dismay. It was the last place she ought to have been. Her social life suffered from it, badly. Sometimes he wanted to shake her and tell her she couldn't go on dwelling like this, she had to move on, but he didn't have the heart. Especially now.

He thought about throwing a surprise party for her when she got home, but he knew how tired she would be. So he bought an expensive bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and invited Marguerite over for a quiet meal. She shuffled sleepily into the kitchen around noon as he was unpacking his groceries.

"Morning, Little Lotte," he said affectionately as she yawned. "Here," he said, pulling the wine bottle out, excitedly.

"Oh!" She bent over to read the label and looked up at him in surprise. "Ralph?"

He swallowed a little, how could anyone possibly be so lovely just after climbing out of bed? Her blonde hair was pleasantly mussed and her complexion creamy. He dragged his thoughts back to her query.

"I invited Marguerite over for a birthday luncheon. You had better take your shower, m'dear. She should be here in an hour or so." He kissed her swiftly on the cheek and hastily turned back to the meat parcels for the main course. She flushed lightly and padded off.

––

Scene XXII

Focus: la Suédoise

As her slender fingertips wound suds across her scalp they probed the bottom lefthand drawer of her brain.

Should she tell Ralph she knew? She didn't know. She could only assume it was because of Erik. Charlotte was well aware of how irrational Ralph could be about Erik. Honestly, who could blame him?

Though Charlotte had her reservations on the gun's effectiveness in the matter at hand. If Erik _still _wasn't dead, would six rounds make much difference?

But if that was the price of Ralph's peace of mind, she would suppress her own discomfort. There would be no occasion for its use. It was merely another curio tuck away in a drawer to collect dust.

Charlotte didn't think of it again. Not until that Friday.

––

Scene XXII

Focus: le gardien galant et la Suédoise

Shadows were beginning to grow long again as the trio finished desert.

"Thank you, Ralph, Margo, that was lovely," Charlotte murmured. She curled her legs under her in contentment.

"Oh, you're not getting away that easily," Marguerite returned, "you haven't even opened your presents."

Her face fell and she began to, predictably, object. "I don't _want _presents. What do I need _things _for when I have _you _all?"

"The lady doth protest too much," Marguerite muttered dryly and Ralph stifled a laugh. "Really, don't get so worked up, or you're bound to be disappointed. Ralph, since expectations are so high, you'd better go first to let her down easy."

He shrugged and retrieved an enormous bouquet of fragrant white roses from the kitchen and a parcel from his room. Charlotte smelled the flowers appreciatively and then gently set them aside to take the package. Wondering that she hadn't noticed it earlier. It was a heavy for its size and wrapped in simple sky blue paper tied in a pretty emerald silk ribbon. With a whimsical smile she removed the paper and lifted the lid to reveal a fine leather album.

"Open it," Ralph urged.

She did and there was her only picture with both her mother and father. The next few pages contained careful arrangement of all her family memorabilia. Charlotte had to set it aside because she was afraid of getting it wet. Marguerite was a step ahead, taking it from her and providing a handkerchief at the same time.

"Thank Ralph, thank you very much, it's wonderful."

"I'm glad."

"God, you look like your mother, Charlotte," Marguerite drawled.

"Really?" Charlotte asked, surprised. She hastily wiped her face and leaned over.

"I guess I do."

"She has her father's nose though," Ralph teased.

"Gee, thanks Ralph," she responded sarcastically.

"Yes, thanks Ralph," Marguerite cut in with affected effrontery, "how am I suppose to live up to the gift of the decade, huh? Jerk," she muttered and carelessly threw her package at Charlotte.

Charlotte caught it reflexively and laughed.

"Well Marguerite, if that's how you feel about it–"

"Children..." Charlotte interrupted, a little exasperated.

She opened the card first, inside were two tickets to the next Friday's performance of _Napoli_.

––

The significance of that is? The opera houses only the ballet company nowadays. Accompanied by a few trite allusions to Poe.

I've been thinking about presenting this whole story in chronological order as a reference. What think you?


End file.
